


please please please let me get what i want this time

by sarahbacou



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Betaed, Fluff, Gen, JUST ASK CROWLEY OUT DUMB ANGEL BOY, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Post-Apocalypse, aziraphale does some soul searching, crowley sleeps a lot, it's slight but it's there, the story has a lot more fluff than the summary, wherein aziraphale finally LEARNS TO GET HIS SHIT TOGETHER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:29:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbacou/pseuds/sarahbacou
Summary: He should have been used to using past tense, being an angel. If there was one thing he learned, nothing was ever promised to stay around forever. Temples crumbled and people dissolved into dust. Still, it never got easier, and Aziraphale reckoned it never would.Aziraphale had a bookshop. That bookshop burned down.Crowley had a Bentley. That Bentley burned down.They had a life together. That life was going to be burned down.wherein crowley regains his strength after stopping time and aziraphale realizes he's a little late in the love department.





	please please please let me get what i want this time

**Author's Note:**

> after a year of not having any passion for writing, i finally have hit the jackpot with good omens. i say this. i mean, i've got like??? seven ideas for these boys, but honestly i'm not sure if any of them will ever see the light of day bc i'm the laziest person known to man. fingers crossed. probably just jinxed myself, though. 
> 
> this is probably the fluffiest thing i've written to date. it's so disgustingly sweet. i love soft!aziraphale and i will die for him. 
> 
> dedicated to: lee. my slimeboy. my bedrock. i love you. thank you for emu!sherlock and emu!john. i hope you like this too!

Angels and demons are inherently different creatures, despite coming from the same stock. Though they share similarities like performing miracles, more or less enjoying bureaucratic paperwork, and wings, there are limitless deviations that set each other apart. Aziraphale knows this all too well, probably better than his brothers in heaven. He knows this because he has spent the past six millennia with a demon, and he has learned that Falling contributes to more than just blackened feathers and yellowed eyes. Falling doesn’t just mean you have an affinity for morally grey aspects of the world, nor is it exclusive to having your feet burned at church.

Aziraphale knows that Falling is more than meets the eye, and he watches Crowley stand up in the dark when their bus arrives, only to have him nearly faceplant onto the asphalt. Aziraphale catches him, manages to get him upright and onto the middle section of the bus. 

He’d seen the Bentley, how it was a mangled corpse of an automobile; just a ball of blackened rust that continuously creaked and groaned. He’d seen Crowley, all swagger and flame, walk out of the husk of what had certainly once been a magnificent car. Even then Crowley looked dead on his feet. Somehow the drive from the M-25 to Tadfield had made Crowley’s unusually gaunt appearance pull even tighter around his chicken-wire frame. At that moment Aziraphale wanted to find Crowley a nice cot in the army base and make him rest for a couple of hours.

Demons, Aziraphale knows, can drain their magic far faster than an angel can. Of course, most of the time in Crowley’s case it doesn’t really matter. He never does any temptations big enough to leach the magic out of him in one go. It happened once before, and Aziraphale remembers that Crowley slept for an entire century just to replenish enough for the dregs of his reserve. Back then it had been some trivial matter, something that had passed Aziraphale’s memory, but he was certain it didn’t even come close to the sheer willpower it took Crowley to keep his Bentley intact enough to make it to the airbase. Despite every organ inside of him screaming to make Crowley take a break, Aziraphale smiled and welcomed him in a body that wasn’t quite his own. 

Those eyes. Crowley’s eyes. That’s what made it impossible for Aziraphale to go through with his original plan.

They were so… determined. Despite his face being drained of all Earthly color, his eyes never look so aglow. The fire of the M-25 was blazing brightly inside of Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t want to put it out. How could he? Crowley had just as much of a right, though looking tired and a little worse for wear, to be here as Aziraphale, who didn’t even have a body to call his own right now. 

So the stopping of the Apocalypse had commenced, and it seemed that Crowley wasn’t going to do any other drastic stripping of his magic.

And then Aziraphale made him stop time. And then Adam defeated his satanic father. And they won, but not before Crowley collapsed out of pure exhaustion. Aziraphale caught him then, too. He would always catch him. He would have to, now that Heaven and Hell were decidedly going to push them to their deaths in the morning. It went without saying that between now and then Crowley was going to be protected and safe. As much as Aziraphale would have loved to stay on the base and miracle a small bed or something, that wasn’t going to be an option. Especially not if the combined forces of Heaven and Hell were going to come after them. No. They both needed to be somewhere where they had the upper hand and could plan a failsafe way of getting out of this new predicament. Aziraphale woke Crowley and told him to just stay awake long enough to make it onto the bus. Once there, he could rest until they got to London, Aziraphale promised. 

Thankfully when a demon used up all their energy they just became sluggish and stupidly slow. Like a drunk person. Crowley had asked Aziraphale dazedly, with a dumb grin on his face as they sat on the bus, if Aziraphale remembered when Crowley had stopped time. Aziraphale said with soft awe that he had and that he was proud. Then Crowley asked where they were going. Aziraphale replied that they were going home. 

“Together?” Crowley inquired drowsily for the seventh time. His eyes were nearly closed, and Aziraphale longed to get him in bed. The color had still not returned to his near-emancipated body. 

“I should hope so, Dear,” spoke Aziraphale, pulling Crowley close to him. He didn’t trust Crowley to not pitch forward if the bus driver decided to break suddenly. Crowley was cold against his shoulder, and he usually always was, but this was the kind of cold that Aziraphale associated with poor circulation. He carefully nudged Crowley over to the window and moved to take his coat off. 

“Sssssssstop moving me. I’m tryin’ t’ sssssleep.” Crowley grumpily hissed, and Aziraphale affectionately rolled his eyes as he draped his heavy coat over his shoulder before returning him to his chest.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve poor circulation and I needed to start warming you up. You can sleep now. I’ll wake you when we get to London.” 

“Sssssss... alrigh’, Angel.” Whispered Crowley. Aziraphale took his hand and squeezed it as a reply of sorts as Crowley’s breathing evened out and his eyes finally closed. Aziraphale wondered how hard Crowley had to think to actually form words instead of just wayward hissing. Then he felt guilty about making him stop time again. 

For a while everything was silent, and Aziraphale stared out the window. It had started to rain across the English countryside. Aziraphale had to wonder if that was one of his brother’s coping mechanisms for not being able to slay countless demons. Streaks of water were falling down the window of the bus, sometimes conjoining with other drops as they continued their descent. The sound on the metal roof was comforting too. It reminded Aziraphale of his bookshop, where there was always some form of soft noise emitting from somewhere. Often it was the crackling of a fire Aziraphale had lit, other times the tinny lilt of a classical record he felt like enjoying. 

Heaven had always been too silent and too cold. That was why Aziraphale made his bookstore so cramped and inviting. On even his best days the thought of the barren, metallic skyscraper was enough to send Aziraphale retreating into his bedroom. Heaven was too sharp. Words there were like knives, and all the knives knew exactly where to stab and when to twist and how to cause Aziraphale the most pain. If he could endeavor to make his place of inhabitance warm and comforting, he reasoned, then maybe he’d miss Heaven a little bit less every day. 

As it turns out, it wasn’t necessarily the bookshop that made Aziraphale a little more apathetic towards Upstairs. It helped, of course, to be able to bury yourself in a 19th-century book after you were yelled at by your superiors, but that wasn’t the reason Aziraphale had stopped longing for Heaven and started looking towards Earth. The reason was snoring lightly against his chest, ginger quiff slowly deflating, with dark glasses slightly askew and perching precariously the end of his nose. Crowley’s constant companionship had been the sole reason Aziraphale stopped missing his home. The more time Crowley spent time with him the more Aziraphale realized that he didn’t need Heaven. He didn’t need their conniving words pressed into his ear. What he needed was Crowley. Safe. With him. If Aziraphale could have that, then everything was right in the world. 

He kept staring at the rain outside, watching the water flow down the window ceaselessly. Aziraphale prayed that it would stop before they got home. The last thing Crowley needed was to get sick in his compromised state. Where would they be if Crowley was sick when Hell and Heaven came to collect them? Aziraphale knew that as a pair they might be able to escape, albeit injured, but alive and together all the same. However, if Crowley couldn’t fight back, Aziraphale understood plainly that neither of them stood much of a chance. He couldn’t be counted on to drag Crowley’s unconscious body away from danger even if he wanted to.

At some point Aziraphale’s gaze dropped down to Crowley, watching him rhythmically breathe in his deep state of slumber. It was comforting to watch him in such a peace of mind. Aziraphale’s free arm tugged his coat around Crowley’s slender body, and the arm that he had behind Crowley’s neck stroked the back of his head, finding that his hair was smooth and short. Aziraphale would be lying if he said that he didn’t miss Crowley’s long hair. Or, rather, he missed the fact that he never got the chance to braid his hair. It was one of Aziraphale’s greatest regrets that he never told Crowley how he felt, how he yearned to pull him close beneath a tree on a warm summer’s day and recite Shakespeare’s sonnets, comparing Crowley to a summer’s day and the like. 

When the Apocalypse reared its ugly flaming horned head, Aziraphale was horror-struck. He’d never told Crowley how much he meant to him, how much Aziraphale loved him in every single way, how he _would_ love him until the moon would be washed away by the waves of time and space until the Earth ceased rotating and half the planet roasted and half the planet froze. Even then Aziraphale would still love Crowley. But the Apocalypse would have ensured that never happened. They would have died, and Aziraphale paled at the thought of having to slay Crowley with his own hand. 

Right then and there, with Crowley safe and sound in his arms, rain jetting down upon the tinny bus, Aziraphale vowed to tell him how he truly felt when all was said and done. There would be a time where Crowley would wake up, full of life and demonic miracles and the like. His eyes would open to a less-than-thankful world, but to a world he helped save nonetheless. Aziraphale would be there when this all happened with a cup of hot tea and a soft, warm smile. He’d sit on the edge of the mattress and tell Crowley that he loved him, deeply and truly. He had loved him since Eden and he would love him until God smote him from the ground upon which he stood*. If Crowley didn’t reciprocate his feelings back, Aziraphale would accept it with grace. He was, after all, an Angel, and if Crowley found there was no love in his heart for Aziraphale then he would let his only love walk away from him. 

At least, that’s what Aziraphale _hoped_ he would do.

There was a part of him that knew he would probably do the exact opposite. 

Crowley moved suddenly as the bus hit a particularly large pothole, and jolted Aziraphale from his wandering mind. “Asssssiraphale,” He hissed out, more snake-like than before. “I sssssssstopped time. I jusssssst remembered.” 

“Shhhh, Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed softly, running his knuckles over Crowley’s shoulder comfortingly. “You need to sleep.”

“I sssssssstopped time, though. For you.”

“Mhm, and I am so so proud of you,” Aziraphale muttered. He felt Crowley nuzzle his face in the soft part of Aziraphale’s body, between the shoulder and the chest. “You feeling better?” 

“Tired… Ssssssstopped time...” 

“Then go back to sleep. We’re not even halfway home, there’s no need for you to stay up.”

“Sssssssss…” Crowley hissed out, eyes fighting against an increasingly losing battle. The sunglasses he wore were nearly off his nose now, and the way his head was positioned was going to make for an uncomfortable angle later on. Aziraphale looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

“Dear, sit up for a moment, would you?” Crowley’s eyes lethargically slid open to reveal two yellow slits. What little white Aziraphale could see was tinged red with exhaustion. The look Crowley gave him was damning and sent a frightful chill down Aziraphale’s spine, but he complied anyway. 

“You jusssssst told me to sssssssleep, Angel. Make up your bloody mind.” 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” 

There was another large bump in the road as Aziraphale stripped off his vest and pulled up the plastic blue armrest from the middle and right chair. He heard Crowley sibilate as his head slammed backwards on the headrest. 

“Where’ssssssss my Bentley? Why’re we taking thisssssss infernal busssssss? Driver doessssn’t know how t’ bloody drive.” 

Aziraphale was recalled back to their time at the bench outside of Tadfield so hard it gave him whiplash. He bunched up his silk vest, upset for a moment at the wrinkles that would undoubtedly show. 

“Your Bentley was destroyed, remember? You drove it from the M-25 to the airbase with it being on fire. Come now, my dear, lay down. Stretch out.”

Crowley hissed once more in compliance, and Aziraphale’s heart longed for him to be rested again. He wasn’t sure how Crowley was feeling currently, didn’t know if he was in pain or just tired. There wasn’t any way to gauge him. He was always an enigma, and that was how he was going to stay. Aziraphale put his middle finger to his thumb, nearly snapping his fingers together to alleviate some of Crowley’s sleepiness and maybe-pain. He stopped, though, when he realized that using miracles would probably jump start Heaven and Hell capturing them. He resigned himself to helping Crowley settle down in his lap with his head resting nicely on the silk vest, repositioning the glasses so the covered up his eyes again. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Aziraphale asked, and then, “Are you comfortable?” to hopefully mask his worry. 

“‘m fine, Angel. Tire’… ‘eadache… worl’ssssss ssssswimmy… ligh’ssssss brigh’.” 

“The glasses should help with that.” He pulled the coat over Crowley again, and it left Aziraphale wishing he’d gone for a longer cut so the length would cover his feet. “Have you got any magic left?” 

For a minute, Crowley was silent, and Aziraphale started to think he’d fallen asleep when he hummed thoughtfully. 

“Jussssst enough to miracle an apple, I think.” As if to demonstrate, Crowley lifted his hand out from underneath the coat, but before he could make the fruit a reality Aziraphale pushed it down.

“I believe you, Dear. You should go back to sleep now. Replenish some more magic, hm?” 

“For more applessssssss?”

“Yes. Perhaps we shall bake a pie when you’re more coherent.” Aziraphale indulged, smiling affectionately. He watched Crowley as his body relaxed into a close ophidian state. He turned to his side, nose and forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s stomach, while his arms and legs tangled around the rough tartan coat like it were a particularly thick vine. Aziraphale waited until Crowley’s breathing had evened out once more to place his hands amicably over his body. One hand went on his shoulder, and the other to his thick ginger hair, stroking it comfortingly. The yellow light flickered above them, its continued buzzing Aziraphale’s only auditory companion besides the battering of the rain and an occasional cough or sniffle. 

The latter noises worried him incessantly. Despite there being less than half a dozen people, Aziraphale knew that they probably made a grievous error in talking about the usage of Crowley’s magic, or, worse yet, Aziraphale letting Crowley talk so freely about stopping time. When it came to humans and Up or Downstairs, angels and demons had strict instructions to never reveal what they truly were. If they did so the consequences would be dire. Terribly so. Aziraphale loathed to find out what would happen if one let slip they heard talk of a thwarted apocalypse. It wasn’t even that, though. Not necessarily. The upside of catching the two a.m bus was that it was, in fact, two in the morning. Aziraphale looked down at his watch. They’d been sitting for about thirty minutes, so he assumed they’d arrive in London in about an hour and a half. Plenty of time for the humans to rationalize the irrational. 

What _really_ worried Aziraphale was the thought of spies from their respective head offices listening in on him and Crowley. He tutted to himself and shook his head. There was nothing that could be done now. The damage had been dealt, and there wasn’t any point in trying to contain what fire they’d already started. They were already in deep trouble. Aziraphale thought it would be icing on top of the cake if this bus ride became incriminating evidence as well. 

Aziraphale supposed he should be trying to figure out how to save them from Heaven and Hell. Though knowledgeable in how little miracle-making it took to drain a demon’s magic source, Aziraphale had no gauge on how long it would take Crowley to regain his usual vigor and strength. If the 19th century was anything to go by Crowley would be no help to them at all. It was all too touch and go for Aziraphale’s liking. Crowley might revel in the mysteries and the curiosities of the unknown. He might savor the inexplicable sliminess of sheer strangeness washing over his body. He might even favor jumping into damning darkness just for the fun of it. Crowley always lived on the edge and always saved Aziraphale in the end. His last minute schemes were devilish at best and anathematizing at the worst. Nevertheless, Aziraphale gave Crowley credit where credit was due and internally admitted that if it hadn’t been for him Aziraphale would probably still be looking for a body up in Heaven. 

But where Crowley found comfort in not knowing Aziraphale only found anxiety. He needed to _know_. He needed to be able to scrutinize every thread in the tapestry, every piece of the puzzle, lest he make an uninformed decision**. Sitting here without all the information didn’t bode well for him. How was he supposed to save both him and Crowley if Crowley was lying here incapacitated, only able to mumble about stopping time and apples and hissing complaints about the bus driver? How? Aziraphale bit his lip, the well of all too familiar anxiety rising from the depths of his stomach, lapping at his lungs, threatening to drown him in fear. How? How, how? Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to persuade either side to call off their respective celestial hunts. Words meant nothing to them. They didn’t back when Lucifer Fell, and they most certainly meant even less now. Aziraphale couldn't fight them either. Taking on two armies with a flaming sword and no backup? Out of the question. It was complete and utter suicide. 

Aziraphale sat there, hopeless, hapless, staring at the hard blue chair in front of him. 

Crowley moaned softly in his sleep, and tightened his grip on the coat. In Aziraphale’s uneasiness, he hadn’t noticed that he gripped Crowley’s hair quite tightly, knuckles white with apprehension. After the initial shock of hurting his best friend had passed, Aziraphale quickly held both his hands up in silent defeat.

“S-sorry, Crowley. Guess I don’t know my own strength, eh?” He stuttered out, and put one hand to his heart as Crowley relaxed once more. It was beating faster than he would have liked. He made a mental note after another mental bereation to keep a closer eye on what his appendages were doing, and went back to stroking Crowley’s hair. “Oh, my dear. What are we going to do?” 

The worst part was not knowing what Heaven and Hell were going to do to them. That was probably the point, Aziraphale realized. If they _did_ know then certainly they could thwart whatever was planned for them. He was intelligent, and Crowley was exceptionally cunning and optimistic even in the most bleak of situations. Given their six-thousand years of experience Aziraphale supposed that no plan could really keep them down for long.

He inspected Crowley again, making sure to softly run his fingers through his hair. The light above them made him look like a pale mustard yellow. Crowley’s skin was washed out, but his hair took the ugly shade with pride. The red updo shone like fiery strands against the beige silk of Aziraphale’s vest, shimming in a light that made everything else hopelessly dull. 

Very suddenly, almost instantaneously as he gazed at Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale’s heart stopped. 

_Hellfire._

They were going to murder him with Hellfire. 

_Well,_ thought Aziraphale haughtily, _Heaven could at least be a little more original with their death sentence._ Imagination had never been an angel’s strong suit. It was too warm and life-like for it to ever be a trend in Heaven. It was sad, really. Imagination was one of the many things Aziraphale loved about humanity. Without creativity and inspiration there would be no art for him to enjoy. There certainly wouldn’t be fancy and elaborate churches, he had reasoned with himself back in the thirteenth century. Heaven not utilizing their imaginations was such a waste of time, if you asked Aziraphale’s opinion on the subject. He had spent days holed up in his bookshop imagining ways to tell Crowley how much he loved him. Those never came to fruition, of course, but a Principality could dream.

After that it was easy to figure out how they were going to kill Crowley. Demons were just as dull and flat as Angels were. Oh, Aziraphale would give them credit where credit was due, of course, as they had some truly terrifyingly artistic ways of torturing souls, but when it came to dealing with insubordinate employees they lacked that certain finesse. If Aziraphale was going to die by Hellfire, then Crowley was going to perish by Holy Water. 

It was almost laughable, the irony. What had made one was to destroy the other.

Aziraphale continued to stroke Crowley’s hair and shoulder. The silk vest underneath his head seemed to be a good makeshift pillow, and whenever he tossed and turned Aziraphale was there to push the loose fabric into a more coherent shape. He longed for another life with him. He always had. 

As an angel and a demon, respectively, Aziraphale only considered it natural that he’d wanted to live a normal, human life with Crowley. They could never be together. Not fully. Not like Aziraphale had wanted for so long. There had been ghosts of plans made, of course, over the half-dozen of millenniums they’d lived through. One of them had been Crowley’s idea around the fourteenth century when he’d been particularly fed up with Hell clamoring up and down his backside to produce more results. He’d asked Aziraphale if he’d join him in some far off planet.

“The humans won’t even find us there.” Crowley reasoned. “They won’t even miss us. The planet’s called Pluto. It’s small but it has enough room for you and I, and all of your books.”

“I can’t, Crowley. Much as I want to leave, I can’t just abandon my post. I’m an angel, you’re a demon, and you can’t not do what your superior says. I cannot go to Pluto with you. It is simply out of the question. Please don’t ask me again.” 

Crowley had left in a huff after that, and Aziraphale didn’t see him again until the Globe Theatre.

Perhaps Aziraphale shouldn’t have been so surprised when he himself made to plan to elope with Crowley. The year was 1765, and somehow both of them had been sent over to the Colonies. It was just before the start of the war, and if it hadn’t been for Crowley’s side***, Aziraphale could have been back at home in what was going to be Soho eventually, dusting off the small stack of books he’d procured not even a month prior. 

As it happened, he had been standing in the pale darkness of Lexington, Massachusetts, grumbling about the grime beneath his fingernails. Gabriel told him no, you can’t come back to London until the war has started. No, Aziraphale, you can’t just hole up in a news shop as an apprentice. If the demons sent Crowley out to secure souls for Hell, then Aziraphale was going to do the same for Heaven. 

The gun on his shoulder dug into his soft flesh relentlessly, and despite the sun not having risen yet the heat was near unbearable. A light sheen of sweat had already begun to bead across Aziraphale’s temple. For a moment, only a moment, he took the gun off his shoulder and put it down, turning around to face the sleeping city below. 

“Never thought I’d see you abandon your post again, Angel. Not after Eden.” 

_“Crowley.”_ Whispered Aziraphale. His eyes met the others’, blue boring into yellow. Even in the darkness, Crowley’s eyes shone like discs of gold. Expensive and elaborate and out of place with the rest of this infernal land. Aziraphale, for just a moment, found a home in Crowley's eyes. “I’m, uh, not leaving.” 

“No? Then grab your gun and keep on the lookout for those pesky American rebels.” 

Aziraphale stuttered for a moment, hands clenched but not too tight, his blue eyes scanning the world for some sort of answer, some sort of a way to get out of the hole he dug himself into.

“Well it’s just… well you’re one of them, Crowley.” 

“A demon? Yes. Have been for a while now, but good on you for not being prejudice. There should be more angels like you, Aziraphale. Really, it's commendable.” 

“No, an American rebel. It wouldn’t sit right with me if I turned you in.” 

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, hands clasped behind his back. “So if you’re not abandoning post, but you’re not actively doing your job, then what _are_ you doing?” 

“Planning,” Said Aziraphale simply, a goofy yet intelligent grin on his face. 

“Mm, planning what, Angel?” 

“A plan for us to run away together.” 

Crowley stared at him blankly for two seconds too long. Aziraphale’s stomach turned at the silence “You’re so brilliantly stupid.”

“What?” 

“Well first off, that’s abandoning your post tenfold. You’re abandoning your _angelic post,_ which, I could argue, is worse. And that’s coming from me, Angel, a demon. You can’t just do that. It’s suicide. Secondly, I don’t think I’d go with you even if the plan was airtight.” 

Aziraphale felt like he’d been hit with a ton of bricks. “W-Why?” 

Crowley made a face in the violet darkness that was a sibling of disgust, waving a hand through the air. “Heart’s not in the right place. You want to leave for all the wrong reasons, and in twenty years you’ll want to come back to Earth. If I’m to leave with you it would need to be a permanent decision.”

“Oh, but it _is_ a permanent decision!” 

“We’ve been here for eight months, Angel. For eight months and eight months only have you wanted to leave. When you’re in London you absolutely shoot down any idea of mine that begins with ‘Us’ and ends in ‘Leaving’, but here it’s all you can think about. You’re homesick, Aziraphale, and the minute we can go back and forget about this bloody war the happier you’ll be, and then you’ll never want to leave Earth again.” 

Aziraphale stood there, not knowing exactly how to feel, only that he knew that Crowley was right. In the meantime Crowley had picked up the gun and placed it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, moulding his hands to grip around the butt. He patted him on the small of his back, and his voice was close to Aziraphale’s ear. “Just watch the horizon, Angel. In an hour or two my men will come up and the battle will begin. By teatime tonight you and I will be on the next boat to London. In a month you’ll be back home, and you’ll have forgotten that you ever wanted to commit treason. Likewise, I’ll have forgotten that you’re very likely to shoot me in the coming hours. It’s still going to be dark and I’m not too keen on having my rebels wear colors. Safety in anonymity, and all that. Ciao!” 

Sometimes, Aziraphale _really_ hated knowing Crowley. 

There was a time where the two didn’t know each other, of course. There must’ve been, because Aziraphale didn’t remember Crowley before Eden, and the Falling of Angels was certainly before that. The stars were being sewn into the black quilt of space by the time She created Aziraphale, naked and new and _bright_. He gazed up from the clouded floor upon which he lay, watching his kind fly strings of constellations back and forth through the tenebrous universe. The white wings were a gentle reminder of the grace and holy world he’d been born into. Aziraphale, at that moment, was filled with such unconditional love and faith it nearly tore him asunder. He thanked God for the universe She designed and pledged himself to Her and Her alone. 

That was Aziraphale’s only memory without Crowley being a constant. Present him didn’t know how to cope with that revelation. 

For a moment maybe Aziraphale wanted so impossibly bad for Crowley to have been one of the Angels hanging up the stars. He never wanted to think that there was ever a time where the snarky tone of voice was never just a shout away. He closed his eyes and went back to that memory, laid in the pool of clouds that had birthed him. If Aziraphale squinted and really thought about it- 

No.

Even with an imagination as extensive as Aziraphale’s, even _he_ could not fabricate memories as humans could. There was no flash of red hair dashing between pinpricks of light. There hadn’t been the cocky laughter of someone who was so much more infinitely brilliant than everything else put together. The point of the matter was that Crowley hadn’t been there with Aziraphale. Crowley had not strung up the universe, hard as Aziraphale might want that to be the truth. 

Crowley was here _now_ , though, and that’s what mattered. He was warmer, and though he was still too thin for Aziraphale’s liking, he conceded that he was safe. Aziraphale felt the bus come to a halt, the breaks screeching in his ears quite loudly as they stopped in front of Crowley’s apartment. Aziraphale felt him stir underneath his arms as he awoke from sleep.

“Ssssss…. ‘Sssiraphale." 

“Come on, my dear.” Aziraphale urged softly, pulling the vest from underneath Crowley as a way to urge him up faster, and then grabbed his coat before it tumbled to the floor. They needed to get off the bus before the driver realized that he was not, in fact, in Oxford, and peeled out of the London street faster than Aziraphale could snap his fingers. “Time to go.”

“Tire’...” Crowley mumbled, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. “I ssssstopped time, an’ I jus’ wanna sssleep.” Aziraphale helped him up from the position he was in, feeling his heart break as Crowley spoke. It sounded as though he was near tears, as if this was torture so intricately cruel that the only thing he could do was break down. Aziraphale wished more than anything that Crowley could have a long uninterrupted nap. He wished that Crowley could lay in his bed for decades, with nothing but silk pajamas and warm comforters surrounding him. Aziraphale wished that Heaven and Hell would just leave them bloody well _alone_. They’d suffered enough, didn’t they? The personal turmoil Aziraphale had gone through was enough to make any sane-minded human lose it. He didn’t want to know how Crowley felt. 

But all he did was pat Crowley lightly on the back as they stood up and started to walk out of the bus, wondering when he was going to tell him that unfortunately Crowley _still_ couldn’t get a decent amount of rest, on account of them having to figure out how to thwart their superiors. 

The trek wasn’t all bad news, Aziraphale realized when they stepped onto the solid concrete of London’s streets once more. The near two-hour ride had made Crowley able to walk without assistance. Sleep wasn’t paralyzing him as it did in Tadfield. Crowley paused for a moment, staring at the empty space in the street where the Bentley usually resided. 

_Used_ to reside.

Aziraphale was going to have to get used to using the past tense.

He should have been used to using the past tense, being an angel. If there was one thing he learned, nothing was ever promised to stay around forever. Temples crumbled and people dissolved into dust. Still, it never got easier, and Aziraphale reckoned it never would. 

Aziraphale _had_ a bookshop. That bookshop burned down. 

Crowley _had_ a Bentley. That Bentley burned down.

They _had_ a life together. That life was going to be burned down.

Aziraphale stood beside Crowley, letting the few errant raindrops fall on them while he gazed upwards at those shaded yellow eyes. He was thankful for the light shower now. Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley wanted him to see him cry. The bus squealed away from the wet curb just as Aziraphale hooked his pinky around the end of one of Crowley’s sleeves. They weren’t touching. They never had. This was just a reassuring gesture. Nothing more.

Well, it wasn’t anything more until Crowley closed the gap and clasped his hand tightly against Aziraphale’s.

If Aziraphale wasn’t already capable of producing magic, he would’ve sworn right then and right there, at four in the morning on a grungy London street, surrounded by rain and artificial streetlight, the permanent smell of grease and the ever so slightly acidic smell of the demon next to him, that life was full of sorcery just waiting to be explored. Crowley’s hand was wet in his, the long fingers reaching over Aziraphale’s knuckles and clutching his hand like a lifeline. If Aziraphale had a pulse, it probably would have gone into cardiac arrest from the contact. For a second, all felt right with the world, and holding hands with Crowley was the single most important thing that had ever happened to Aziraphale. 

The rain was cold against his nose as Aziraphale looked to the spot where the Bentley used to be, and then back up again at Crowley. His hair was flat against his forehead, some of the strands sticking to the dark frame of the glasses. He shivered, and Aziraphale made a point to tug Crowley’s hand towards his apartment. They still had a few precious hours before Heaven and Hell would come to collect them, and Crowley still needed rest. Maybe some tea and biscuits, but more importantly rest.

When it was clear that Crowley wasn’t budging, Aziraphale stood in front of him. Their hands were still connected. 

“Crowley, my dear-”

“It’ssssss gone.” The slow susurrated hiss issued from between Crowley’s clenched teeth. “My Bentley issss _gone,_ angel.”

“It is,” Aziraphale confirmed solemnly. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.” He wondered if this is an officer felt when he told a fallen soldier’s mother her boy died in battle. He couldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes again. He didn’t have the right. Aziraphale gazed back out at the empty car spot instead, the heat of cowardice burning deep inside him.

Suddenly holding Crowley’s hand seemed entirely too inappropriate given the absolute mournful look Crowley was emitting. Aziraphale let go. He loathed the fact that that was the only time they’d ever be able to show affection towards each other. It was highly unlikely Aziraphale would ever have the chance to confess his love to Crowley, or hold hands in the sparkling rain again. There had been so many wasted years, so many squandered days where Aziraphale _could have_ but he _did not_ and just holed up in his bookshop, a thick shell of regret and self-imposed anger enveloping him. 

If only Aziraphale had acted quicker on his own wants. If only Aziraphale, for a brief moment in time, had been selfish instead of selfless, he would not be standing here with regrets streaming down him like the water. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so afraid of dying, because then he could die knowing that Crowley knew Aziraphale loved him wholly and truly and completely, no doubts or misinterpretations to be had. 

“I thought I had dreamt it one the busssss.” Crowley confessed, and he sounded more awake than he had since Adam defeated Satan. “I thought that maybe for a sssssecond it had all been in my head. The past eleven yearsss.”

Aziraphale hummed in response, not sure if he was agreeing or asking for Crowley to elaborate. He supposed it didn’t matter. Crowley didn’t make any attempt to continue the conversation anyway.

For a minute or two, everything was silent, and then Crowley howled with misery and fell to his knees. The cry was so gut-wrenching that Aziraphale came down with him, knees instantly soaked by the rain. He watched Crowley curl in on himself, hands crossed over his chest as he just _screamed_. His fingers stretched over his shoulders and clawed at the black fabric frantically. Aziraphale pulled Crowley close to him.

“They’re going to kill ussssss, Assssiraphale.” Crowley muttered brokenly. His voice was so far away. Aziraphale moved the wet ginger bangs from his forehead. He didn’t know if the wetness of his cheeks was due to rain or actual tears. It didn’t matter in the end. 

“No,” Aziraphale countered. His eyes were still trained in front of them. The white lines were almost blinding in the darkness. “They won’t. I won’t let them kill us.”

“I don’t want to die! I don’t-” Aziraphale cut off the distressed Crowley. His hands were placed on either side of Crowley’s cheeks, forcing him to stare into his eyes. Aziraphale felt himself radiating a horrid amount of heat, so much so that the rain on his coat had started to sizzle and evaporate. He transferred some of that warmth to Crowley, whose shivering had become almost a constant companion since they got off the bus.

“Listen to me very carefully, Crowley. Are you listening?” His voice was authoritative, bordering on harsh, but full of love and reverence as was always expected of an Angel of the Lord. Crowley sniffed once or twice and gave a little nod within Aziraphale’s hands. “You’re not going to die. I will _not_ let that happen under any circumstances. I will slay all of Heaven and Hell before they put their hands on you. Do you understand me?” 

“Bu-” 

“No!” Aziraphale raised his voice. It wasn’t quite a shout, not yet, but his bones shook with the power he had emitted. The angelic interference around Aziraphale formed a sort of umbrella around the two of them, and he thanked whoever was listening that Crowley had stopped shaking so violently. “Stop it. Stop it right now, Crowley. I don’t want to hear it because it _will not happen_.” 

“How do you know?” Crowley’s voice wavered in the darkness. “The plansssss for usssss are ineffable.” 

“I just know.” 

Aziraphale’s heart was caught in his throat as they knelt on the still slightly damp ground. After a second Crowley’s head collapsed into Aziraphale’s shoulder. The adrenaline of the panic he felt must have been his last surge of wakefulness. There was a slight shimmer in the air around his shoulder blades, and Aziraphale conceded that they finally had to make it into Crowley’s apartment. Whatever minute level of magic was usually for concealing his wings was clearly being used to keep Crowley’s eyes open. Their time was running out. Humans probably wouldn’t want to see huge black wings on London streets.

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear, arms hooking underneath Crowley’s armpits so as to help raise him back to his feet. “We’ve got to go inside now. It’s far too cold and wet for you to be outside, and I rather think your wings are going to make an appearance.”

Crowley’s reserve strength was clearly waning; his arms snaked around Aziraphale’s side but couldn’t manage to tighten them. Aziraphale registered that the wetness around Crowley’s eyes was hot. It was tears, then, not rain as he wanted to originally believe. He dug his face further into Aziraphale’s shoulder, as if trying to burrow into the ground like a snake. 

“Don’ wanna losssssse you, ‘Sssssira...phale… not… ‘gainsssssss...” Crowley’s language was near serpentine now, it was clear his brain was shutting down all complicated functions and defaulting to Snake. Aziraphale bowed his head low, nose buried into Crowley’s hair as he shut his eyes for a few brief seconds. 

He’d been wrong. Crowley didn’t want to die, not because he was afraid of death, but because he was afraid of not being with Aziraphale. Whatever slim insignificant memories Aziraphale had prior to meeting Crowley was probably tenfold for him. An unbearable lifetime without his Angel. He, who had to lay in a pool of sulfur for a million years. He, who had to tempt humanity with the apple, breaking his heart in the process. He, who had known only cruelty and barbarity for simply asking _why_. It was only when they had met in Eden that Crowley had finally relaxed, having been handed his saving grace. All the years with Aziraphale, all the times he’d been so reluctant to leave him alone for even a decade or two… 

Aziraphale pulled Crowley to him as tight as he could, kissing his head and rocking them side to side. Crowley sobbed weakly. Aziraphale shushed him as he stroked his hair comfortingly. 

“You won’t lose me, dear. Never again. We’ll be fine. I’ll protect you and you’ll protect me, and after all of this has ended we’ll live in a cottage in South Downs. It’ll be lovely, with a garden you can sew into green submission-”

“An’ a library… you love… librariessssss...” 

“Yes, dear, a library. We’ll have one of those as well.” 

Crowley nuzzled further into Aziraphale, seemingly trying to utter a reply as he submerged his nose into the rough coat and took a long shuddering gasp. As he exhaled, his eyes slipped shut, and his breathing all but evened out. Aziraphale smiled sadly as he hooked one arm under Crowley’s knees, the other pressed gently on his back. The wings were light a light silhouette against the backdrop of stone, and Aziraphale hurried inside, out of the prying eyes of society. 

The apartment seemed impossibly small when Aziraphale stepped into it. Maybe it due to the fact the black wings of a demon finally made a thorough appearance. Maybe it was due to the fact that they were going to live what could be the rest of their lives in a place with four alabaster walls. Crowley had decidedly been the optimist, therefore letting Aziraphale take up the mantle of a pessimist. He wasn’t sure if he quite believed in the words he had said to Crowley. They weren’t _untrue_ , per say, because Aziraphale _would_ murder all of his brothers and sisters to see Crowley safe, but he wasn’t sure if he was capable of completing such an arduous task. The idea of South Downs was nice to dream about, but it seemed so far away. Aziraphale tucked that imaginary house to the back of his mind. He couldn’t dwell on the future when it wasn’t promised to them. Every second they had experienced since Tadfield had been borrowed, their future unwritten. That scared Aziraphale.

He walked through Crowley’s apartment, paying no mind to the slightly shaking plants as he lay him down on the bed, taking off his glasses in the process. Immediately Crowley turned on his stomach and grabbed a fistful of blankets in his slumber The wings limply hung off the bed, catching the moonlight spectacularly in the glossy primaries. Aziraphale smiled softly as he sat on the foot of the bed, taking off Crowley’s snakeskin boots.

There would be time in the morning, Aziraphale decided, to conjure up a quick plan to save them. The birds would wake up Crowley in a couple hours, their chirping an alarm clock that signified the beginning of the end. Right now, though, Crowley deserved to sleep uninhibited, and Aziraphale owed it to him to make sure that happened. In the morning Aziraphale would probably make them breakfast, fuss over Crowley when he would inevitably pick at the eggs instead of eating them, and have a notebook chock-full of ideas. After, they’d go to the Ritz and Aziraphale would finally, _finally_ tell Crowley what he should have told him millenniums ago, back when the garden was green and the world was anew. 

Aziraphale only prayed Crowley felt the same way. 

*and even then, Aziraphale supposed, he'd still love Crowley in whatever capacity he was able.

**He was notoriously bad at this. The most recent and most incriminating example was 1941.

***Aziraphale couldn't rightly remember if the whole American Independence affair was a demonic or angelic intervention. He assumed it was Crowley's doing, while Crowley assumed Aziraphale started it. What neither of them realized was that the humans did that all on their own.

**Author's Note:**

> this was proofread by my lovely girlfriend, becca. i love her 3000! she's the crowley to my aziraphale.


End file.
